Learning Curve
by Samantha Joan
Summary: He decides right then, if she's the sun– he's definitely bound to get burned./AU - in which Jess is Nick's student at university.


_**So, I started this based on an awesome AU edit on Tumblr with the promo pic of law school!Nick, and young teacher!Jess...I got inspired. **_

_**What you need to know:**_

_**She's 22, he's 28, I've never written an AU before, and I don't own anything. Really, anything at all.**_

* * *

She's got the brightest damn eyes he's ever seen.

And it's kind of like staring at the sun whenever he looks her way, because those freaking dresses of hers are always just as _ridiculously_ bright – and he's never encountered a twenty-something year old that still wore so many bows.

The problem is, you're not supposed to stare directly at the sun.

(Especially when that sun is your student in your first year of teaching here and there are strict, concrete, written guidelines about such things – he'd checked…just to be absolutely sure…)

But he can't help it.

The fact that she's so eager –to learn– makes things that much harder. She's inquisitive, always asking questions, scribbling away in her old-school marble notebooks, hanging on his every word as she's seated right up in the front row.

The view of those long legs of hers (does this girl own _any_ jeans?!) makes it increasingly difficult to not stumble over his words during the lecture.

He clears his throat as the room empties out one Friday afternoon, and looks up to see her making her way towards him, her red kitten heels clicking against the tile floor.

"Professor Miller?"

He blinks once before offering a smile. "Miss Day. What can I do you for?"

"Miss Day," she mocks in a deep voice, suppressing a laugh.

He just raises an eyebrow.

"Sorry," she rushes out quickly. "Just, uh, you always remind me of my sixty year-old history teacher in ninth grade when you call me that. Well, you know, without the grey hair and the sweater vests and–"

"I get it!" he says on a laugh, holding up his hands. "How about just Day then?"

She smiles proudly at him and nods. "Uh, anyway– I wanted to follow up on the ethics verses moral debate form earlier? Get more of a handle on the material before I start my paper."

He nods dumbly, and then gestures to the paper stuck to the double door. "My office hours –"

"Tuesday morning," she finishes for him, beaming. And then she's holding out her hand for him to shake. "See you then?"

He quirks an eyebrow at her again, but her smile is infectious, and warm – so he shakes her hand when she suddenly leans in closer.

"For the record," she whispers, "you're a lot better looking than Mr. Van."

And before he can do anything but stutter in response, she's already sauntering towards the door with a quick glance and grin over her shoulder.

He decides right then, if she's the sun– he's definitely bound to get burned.

And happily so.

* * *

She's nervous – like, really nervous as she walks down the hall to his office.

Which is ridiculous for about a hundred different reasons, mainly being that he's her professor for God's sake, and the fluttery flip-floppy thing her stomach is doing right now, should not be a thing.

She wasn't lying when she said he was good looking (she still can't believe she'd said that out loud– goodness, she seriously needs a filter), it was more of an understatement if anything.

She's occasionally lost her place in her textbook when he flashes them all a smile, one that she tends to imagine is aimed in her direction.

And well, it's not _only_ that, but she admires him – the way his mind works, the way he encourages debate, how he can capture the attention of the room without commanding it; the type of teacher she hopes to be when she graduates.

"You're early," she suddenly hears his voice call as he approaches, coffee and the keys to his office in hand.

"It's a bright and sunny day," she sing-songs, leaning against the wall as he unlocks the door.

"Ah–you're one of those morning people I've heard about aren't you?" He smirks as he gestures his hand for her to pass him. "I thought they were a myth."

"We're a dying breed," she quips, brushing past him as she enters the room.

* * *

"So, what you're saying -– is that you feel the two aren't mutually exclusive?"

She nods at him as he's stretched out in his chair, casually tossing a bright red hacky sack ball as they talk. "Exactly! I believe that a decision you make, for reasons that you think are right, can be moral – while not exactly being ethical by society's standards."

It's _fun_ debating with him like this (and less nerve wrecking than she'd thought), trading thoughts and ideas and it feels more like coffee-shop talk than it does discussing material with your professor.

He hums in thought and then looks up at her. "Color me intrigued – An example, gooo–" and then he tosses the ball in her direction –

– which she almost drops.

He chuckles – and she feels justified in the glare she shoots him in response.

"Um, okay – so let's say there's a DA who needs evidence for a case. Like, crucial evidence. But the judge won't grant her a warrant."

"With you so far."

"But she knows it's there, and that the defendant would go free without it," she continues "And hurt more people. So – she lies. Lies her way in, has the cops do the search anyway. Unethical, yes. But not immoral, if it puts the bad guy away and helps people."

Satisfied she's made her point, she smiles and tosses the ball back to him. "Boom!"

He rolls his eyes, but his lips curve into a smile. "Very good, Day."

"I think that –" she starts to speak, and then he's rising from his chair and making his way around his desk and nearer to her.

"– Sometimes, you maybe have to bend the rules – break them even, in order to do what you feel is right," she concludes, blinking up at him now.

"And _I_ think," he says as he leans down just a fraction of inch, his hands in his pockets, "that you have your paper."

This particular smile, she definitely didn't have to imagine was directed at her.

(Her stomach really, really needs to stop doing that thing.)

* * *

_**A prologue of sorts. Actual, you know, plot to come. Maybe.**_

_**...Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?**_


End file.
